Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX5902TZTKCN3X0GQ8H9DV

The rain came down in sheets, turning the Soho pavements into slick mirrors that reflected the sickly glow of the streetlights. Detective Harlow Quinn didn’t slow. Her boots splashed through puddles, the cold seeping through the leather, but she kept her eyes locked on the figure darting between the shadows ahead. The suspect—tall, lean, moving with the kind of desperate grace that came from knowing the streets like the back of their hand—had already vanished twice tonight. She wasn’t about to let it happen a third time. Ahead, the neon green sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered in the downpour, its glow bleeding into the wet air. The suspect didn’t hesitate. They veered sharp left, shouldered through the bar’s heavy wooden door, and disappeared inside. Quinn didn’t break stride. She hit the door a second later, the warmth of the bar slapping her in the face like a wet towel. The scent of stale beer and old woodsmoke clung to the air, thick enough to taste. The place was half-empty, just a few regulars hunched over their drinks, their eyes flicking up as she stormed in. No sign of the suspect. Quinn’s fingers twitched toward her radio, but she didn’t reach for it. Not yet. She scanned the room—booths lined with cracked red vinyl, a jukebox in the corner playing something slow and mournful, the bar itself a long stretch of dark wood polished smooth by decades of elbows and spilled whiskey. Then she saw it. A bookshelf at the back, slightly ajar. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to catch her eye. The suspect hadn’t come in here to hide. They’d come in here to *go somewhere else*. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She strode across the bar, her boots thudding against the worn floorboards. A burly man in a leather jacket straightened from his stool, his hand drifting toward his pocket. She didn’t spare him a glance. “Police. Sit down.” He sat. She reached the bookshelf and gave it a sharp tug. It swung open with a groan, revealing a narrow passage lit by a single flickering bulb. The air coming from the gap was colder, damp, carrying the scent of earth and something metallic. Blood? Rust? She couldn’t tell. Quinn stepped inside and let the bookshelf swing shut behind her. The passage sloped downward, the walls lined with peeling posters and graffiti so old the paint had cracked. Her pulse thrummed in her throat, but she kept moving, one hand resting on the grip of her service weapon. The suspect had a head start, but they weren’t getting away. Not this time. The passage opened into a wider tunnel, the ceiling lost in darkness. The air here was thicker, heavier, like breathing through a wet cloth. Distant voices echoed, muffled and indistinct, bouncing off the curved walls. Quinn’s fingers tightened around her gun. She wasn’t in the city anymore. She was *under* it. Ahead, the tunnel split. Left or right. She crouched, running her fingers along the damp concrete. Fresh scuff marks on the right. Boot prints, still glistening with rainwater. She followed them. The tunnel sloped downward again, the air growing colder. The voices grew louder, sharper, until she could make out words—snatches of conversation, laughter, the clink of glass. Then, light. Not the sickly yellow of the tunnel bulbs, but something warmer, flickering like candlelight. She slowed, pressing herself against the wall as she crept forward. The tunnel opened into a vast chamber, the ceiling lost in shadow. Stalls lined the walls, their wares spilling out onto rickety tables—jars of glowing liquid, bundles of dried herbs, weapons that hummed with an energy she could *feel* in her teeth. People moved between the stalls, their faces half-hidden in the dim light, their voices a low, constant murmur. The Veil Market. She’d heard the whispers, the rumours, but she’d never believed it was real. And there, weaving through the crowd, was her suspect. Tall, dark-haired, moving with the same desperate urgency as before. They didn’t look back. Didn’t know she was there. Quinn’s breath came fast, her fingers flexing around her gun. She could call for backup. She could turn around, get out of this place before it swallowed her whole. But if she did, the suspect would vanish. Again. She stepped forward, her boot scuffing against the concrete. A few heads turned. Eyes narrowed. She ignored them, her gaze locked on the suspect as they ducked behind a stall selling what looked like vials of swirling smoke. “Oi. You.” Quinn froze. The voice came from behind her, rough and accented. She turned slowly. A man stood there, his arms crossed over a broad chest. Olive skin, dark curls, a scar running down his left forearm like a jagged lightning bolt. He wore a faded NHS lanyard around his neck, the ID long since scratched out. His warm brown eyes flicked over her, assessing. “You’re not supposed to be here.” Quinn didn’t lower her hand from her gun. “And you are?” “Tomás Herrera.” He jerked his chin toward the market. “This isn’t a place for cops.” “Then it’s a good thing I’m not here as a cop.” His eyebrows lifted. “No?” “No.” She didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to. The suspect was getting away. Herrera’s gaze followed hers, then snapped back. “You’re after *him*?” “Her.” “Her, then.” He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his short curls. “You’ve got no idea what you’re walking into.” “Then enlighten me.” He hesitated, then stepped closer, his voice dropping. “That’s Silas Veyne’s territory. You go in there, you’re not coming out.” Quinn’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t ask for a warning.” “No.” His mouth quirked, just for a second. “You didn’t.” She turned back toward the market, her fingers tightening around her gun. The suspect was almost out of sight, disappearing behind a stall draped in black cloth. Herrera’s hand shot out, gripping her wrist. “You don’t understand. This isn’t just some underground market. It’s a *hunt*.” Quinn yanked her arm free. “Then I’ll bring a leash.” She didn’t wait for his response. She strode forward, her boots echoing against the concrete as she stepped into the light. The market fell silent. Dozens of eyes locked onto her, some curious, some hostile, some downright *hungry*. She ignored them all. The suspect was ahead. That was all that mattered. And she wasn’t leaving without them.